Authors: Sian Griffiths
My head was splitting. The one and only thing I wanted was to ride Foxfire, and it was the one thing I could never do again. I’d never been so alone. He’d known every emotion I’d ever felt. Who else in the world had felt the depth of my sorrow when Mouse died? Who else knew my guilt? Who else could hold such a loss of the one I now faced?
I ignored the ringing phone. I ignored the knocks at the door. Sorrow pushed outwards on the boundaries of my body. I ached at my seams. Foxy carried me through my mother’s illness and Mouse’s death. He even carried me through his own decline. Foxy always carried me.
When the front door opened, I didn’t turn. I hadn’t fastened the locks. Dave, I thought. It didn’t matter. Even he couldn’t make this pain worse.
The couch sank behind my back, and warm hands turned me to face things. Timothy didn’t ask what was wrong. The moment I saw him, all the tears I’d tried to hold flooded out in a moment. He held me as I choked out the rabbits of story that crowded inside my throat, pushing for exit. They ran in all directions, but they kept coming back to the same emptiness.
I was cold and paper-thin. Timothy wrapped me in his soft flannel shirt and listened as I coughed up story. I talked and talked until there were no words left, until all I could do was stare at the squares of the flannel, trying to find order in its time-worn geometry, soft as Foxfire’s coat in spring. At some point, Timothy pulled off my boots, washed the soot from my face, and made coffee. I sat up. The mug in my hand was warm, and its warmth helped. When he looked at me, I could believe that he understood the depth of my pain. Had he helped his mother in the same way after his father’s death, wrapping her in flannel and feeding her coffee?
There was a knock at the door. “Stay put,” he said. “I’ve got it.” He returned bringing with him a large man with a badge.
The man barely looked at Timothy, coming straight to where I sat and making himself at home in my chair. “Ms. Edson, I’m Detective Floyd Watson.” The words came from a mouth hidden under a thick brush of mustache that looked as if he could use it to strain soup. He shook my hand and sat down. “I’d like to talk to you about this morning’s barn fire at Connie Thornfield’s.”
“She’s had a rough day,” Timothy said. “Can’t this wait?”
“I’d really like to talk now, if she’s able.” His bald head expanded at the neck into a massive body, and he reminded me of nothing so much as a walrus, but the small eyes that looked at me were bright rather than piggish. His eyes, I realized too, were not unkind.
“Did you find Foxfire?” I asked.
“Her horse,” Timothy said. “We think he was in the barn.”
“I’m afraid he was trapped in his stall,” he paused, turned on his belt audio recorder, then added, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“It,” I stopped a moment and gathered my voice. “It couldn’t have been any other horse? I mean, you can’t be certain it was Foxfire.”
“I’m afraid there is no doubt.” He seemed at a loss to know what else to say. Timothy sat on the couch next to me and rested his hand on my knee.
Finally, the detective began again. “Ms. Edson, we’re investigating this as an arson case.”
I looked at him for a moment, then shook my head. This detective didn’t know shit. “If you’re thinking Connie did this for the insurance money, you’re way off. She loved those horses, and the barn was her life’s work. Her dream. If you think this was arson, then you don’t know Connie. This? This was an accident.” I wanted to give her a better alibi, but I wasn’t sure it would help her case if I said she was passed out drunk.
He opened a small notebook and flipped through a few pages. “Do you know anyone who drives a large, late-model Dodge pick-up?”
I stared at the man, trying to make sense of his question. “Dave?”
He flipped through the notebook with pudgy fingers, but didn’t seem to find what he wanted.
“Dave Mason,” I said, impatiently. “Jenny Mason’s husband.”
“Through the VIN, we traced the truck registration to Connor Construction.”
“Jenny’s father owns the company. Dave worked for him.”
He fixed me with a penetrating gaze. “Ms. Edson, do you know of any reason why Mr. Mason would want to harm Mrs. Thornfield’s property?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to make sense of this.
“Is there a reason why he would want to hurt your horse?”
I brought my hands up over my face and rubbed my forehead. “No,” I managed. I could feel the sadness swelling in my throat but I swallowed it, unwilling to show any weakness in front of the detective. Dave had found the ultimate way to hurt me. I could not answer without telling the whole story. Timothy moved his hand to my back. “Do you want me to go?” he said.
I dropped my hands and opened my eyes to the ceiling, trying to decide how much to say and how to say it.
“What exactly was your relationship with Mr. Mason?” the detective asked.
“I shouldn’t be here.” Timothy moved to stand, but I stilled him with a hand on his leg.
“No. If anyone deserves to know, it’s you. I should’ve told you weeks ago.” I looked at Timothy only, willing him to understand. It didn’t matter what the detective made of all this. I needed Timothy to know. “Dave and I had a brief affair. I’d just come back from New Jersey. When I found out he was married, I ended things with him. He wouldn’t leave me alone. I moved apartments. I thought I’d managed to lose him, but then Jenny started riding at the barn, and he found me.”
The man scribbled a few short notes in his book, the fat of his neck shaking as he wrote. “He approached you?”
I wanted to say no, but I wouldn’t lie to Timothy again. “He’s been watching me—his truck sitting outside my apartment. He tried to get me to leave with him. Move somewhere. Start a new life.”
“Did you ever think of getting a restraining order?”
I shook my head. “He was a little desperate, but I didn’t think he’d hurt me.” Memories of Rosauer’s contradicted me, but that had only been one day.
“When did you last see Mr. Mason?”
“Last night.”
“Here? Just the two of you?”
“No. We all went to dinner: Dawn and Russ, Jenny and Dave. I wanted to introduce them all to Timothy.” I waited for the detective to finish writing and look at me. “I wanted Dave to know it was over. That I’d moved on.”
“And how did he react?” He sounded like a doctor, asking questions with that disinterested tone as if nothing important rested on my answer.
Timothy’s face was smooth and calm as unbroken water. I said, “Dave didn’t really react at all. I chickened out—I don’t know why. I wasn’t scared of Dave, exactly, but instead of introducing Timothy as my boyfriend, I told them he was my friend. I don’t think I fooled anyone, except maybe myself. They know me well enough to know what bringing Timothy to dinner meant. How big a step it was for me. Dave was silent and sullen, but he didn’t say much. He didn’t explode.”
“Was that what you were expecting? An explosion?”
“I didn’t know what to expect.” These questions were stupid. Last night was an eon ago. I tried to reconstruct it, and suddenly remembered the conversation. Foxfire, my one great love. Bile rose in my throat. I had suggested Dave’s revenge.
The detective ran his hand over his scalp, as if he were polishing it. He had worn no coat. Perhaps he carried enough heat within him. Now, in the small warmth of my apartment, he’d began to perspire. “Ms. Edson, do you have reason to suspect that Mr. Mason was more than normally smitten? Did you ever consider him dangerous?”
“He said he wanted to leave his wife and run away with me, but I never thought he was dangerous. Only unhappy. He felt trapped in his life, and he saw me as a way out.”
He looked at me, waiting to see if there was anything more. I didn’t know what he expected me to say, but at last, my silence seemed to satisfy him. He sighed. “Mr. Mason’s truck was found inside the barn, along with human remains.”
I sat very still, trying again to understand, frustrated that the detective didn’t talk straight. “Are you saying Dave is dead?”
The detective flipped his notebook shut and returned it to his pocket. “We have not identified the remains. It would be premature to assume that they are Mr. Mason’s. We’ll know more after the post mortem.” The detective rubbed his palm over his head again, then dropped his hand and stood. “This must all be quite a shock.” He shook hands, first with Timothy and then with me. “Thank you, Ms. Edson. You’ve been very helpful,” he said as Timothy let him out.
I sat on the sofa, staring at the floor.
You’ve been very helpful
, rang in my ears. “What have I done?”
“You told the truth.” Timothy looked too calm. He hadn’t said “finally.” He hadn’t implied it in tone or look, hadn’t suggested it with even the most minute gesture, but I heard it nonetheless.
“Dave was a little crazy, but not like this. This makes no sense.” My hand shook, and I set my empty coffee cup down, then picked it up and again went to pour another cup. He rose and rifled through cabinets. I listened to him clanging around my kitchen for a while, cooking.
Memories flashed before me like poorly spliced film: Dave stepping into the beams of the headlights the night the truck broke down, Foxfire’s last jealous scream, lunch at Mouse’s locker, the urgency in Dave’s kiss, Zephyr’s power at Deep Creek, Jenny in the ditch holding her arm toward me, the Pod driving away when I sold it, the first time I laid eyes on Timothy. I wrapped the flannel shirt more tightly around my shoulders.
Timothy returned with a bowl of chicken and dumplings. I sipped the broth. Food should have been inedible. My throat should have constricted at the mere thought of eating; instead, the herbed broth warmed me. I broke the clouds of dumplings with my spoon and swallowed them quickly, their steam scalding.
He waited quietly while I ate, but his eyes rested on me thoughtfully under the flop of glossy black hair. I watched the small movements of his tattoo as the muscles of his neck tensed or relaxed. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. His gaze reminded me of Dr. Rivers’ when he was looking into the blank eyes of new ER patients; it had the same penetration, keen as a scalpel’s edge. He took my bowl and refilled my coffee. When he did speak, he said what I least wanted to hear. “Joannie, I think I should give you some space for a while.”
I stared, choking on all the things I wanted to say. He couldn’t care for me and feed me soup and coffee and then vanish. He picked up his coat and kissed my forehead, hesitated, then put his lips against my hair and rest them there.
“Please, Timothy. I’m not strong enough for this.”
“You’ve always been strong enough.”
I looked at my hands, powerless. “I need you.”
His lips curled into a smile that seemed both proud and amused. “You’ve never needed anyone.”
“You’re wrong.” I thought of Mouse and of Foxfire. I had never faced any loss alone. I didn’t know how to begin.
He turned away, then paused. His black hair curtained the eyes that did not meet mine. “You see, what I can’t quite work out is, did you bring me to dinner to drive Dave away or to bring him back? I’m not totally sure you know the answer to that question either.” He pulled on his coat. “Perhaps the question is unfair. It’s a moot point anyway. You’re a tough woman, Joannie. Even stronger than you think. You need some time right now to find your strength again. You need to heal, and I don’t want to be part of the scab you shed when this is over.” He tucked the hair behind my ear, his fingers gentle and loving. “When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting. You know where to find me.”
Again, he kissed me, his lips soft on my forehead. I closed my eyes and leaned in, willing him to stay. For a moment, he leaned his forehead against mine and the breath between us was warm with the home-rich scent of dumplings, but he quickly turned and left without looking back.
VI
The Jump
If I moved out of my own mind, I’d wager something would still function. Some awful perfect part that would inflate my lungs and pump my heart out to my extremities. I wouldn’t be sharp then
.
—Kirsten Kaschock, “DNR”
If you are going to win any battle, you have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do. The body will always give up
.
—General George Patton, 1912 Olympian
Dark and Bitter
Y
ou’ve always been strong enough
. My small room was infused with vapor and mist. Dave and Mouse had filled my dreams. Phantoms glimmered dust in the slanted morning sunbeam. Flesh and bone were mirages, things we believe in to make it through the desert. Touch, smell, sight, sound, taste: just so many fired synapses, electrical currents, nervous energy that we foolishly mistook for a soul. I couldn’t trust my hands to feel.
I smoothed the quilt across my bed and showered, concentrating on each hot needle of water on my skin.
Foxfire burned constantly before me, running endless circles in his inescapable stall, mane and tail ablaze. There was no escaping the searing tongues, and I was always too far away. The vision exploded in cinders. “It wouldn’t have been like that,” I said, needing to hear the words aloud. I hoped lack of oxygen had knocked him out. I needed to believe in smoke.
I didn’t want another thought. If there was a way out, the way was through the body. Screw the mind. Its thoughts only hurt. I made eggs and watched the Mormons walk from their apartments to the Ward. I went running, then showered again. I couldn’t get rid of yesterday. I couldn’t sweat or wash or distract it away.
Dawn, Connie, and Jenny came in the afternoon, each carrying a casserole dish. “Figured you’d need some company,” Dawn said.
My tongue lay like a slug, fat and numb, in my mouth. I couldn’t believe they would want to see me. Why wasn’t Jenny at home with her family? She should be the one getting casseroles, for God’s sake. Why did she look so composed? I pressed my thumbs into the calluses on my hands, but there were no reins there to stop this.